The Spark
by ArabellaGwen
Summary: "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing." Edmund Burke (1729 - 1797). Submission for the March 2013 round of Prompts in Panem on tumblr.


Why does nobody stop this?

Why does nobody try? Why does nobody disrupt the proceedings, pull the obnoxious turquoise wig right off that banal woman's head and pour every single one of these strips of paper onto the ground?

Why do we just stand here, herded like cattle, staring blankly ahead and clapping on cue? Why don't we turn off our screens and smash them to pieces? Why don't we tear down the fence that pens us in all on sides?

We could stop this, if we wanted to. If we tried.

If all 12 of us banded together, we districts could topple the Capitol, I'm sure of it.

But we don't.

We stand here, silent and complicit, and offer our children for slaughter. We gamble our lives for a pinch of grain and a splash of oil. We offer up the abundance of our lands to the people who keep us in poverty. We let them divide and conquer, turn our own people against one another based on the pigment of our skin, the color of our hair.

We let them subjugate and control us. We don't do a thing to stop it. We could be so much more, do so much more. But we don't.

Why?

These are the thoughts I think down below, when it's just me, the pick and the seam. Up here in the light, these words are too dangerous. Even in the relative refuge of my own home, there are little ears that repeat all they hear. Out in the woods, I try to keep the Capitol as far from my thoughts are possible, out of respect for the beauty of the place.

But down in the dark, in the relentless noise and the oppressive heat, my words are all my own. I can shout and scream and feed the rock all my anger.

The Reaping is the only time I allow these thoughts to bubble up above ground.

I look down at Katniss, my tiny, precious flower. She is fussing over Primrose, as always, asleep in her mother's arms. At only seven, Katniss doesn't quite understand it all yet. Last year, she cried as Sage Lockwood was led away to the train. But she still asks sometimes when our neighbor will be back. Part of me wishes she could stay this way forever, that she would always think of the Reaping as nothing more than a boring afternoon spent standing in the sun in her best dress.

But I know the day is coming soon when she will realize the true purpose of this gathering. And then the day when her own name will be tossed into one of those bowls. I don't know how I will live through that day.

My eyes wander down the line of anxious parents that surround the square and land on Bryn Mellark. Two of his sons stand with him, three identical mops of blonde curls. The oldest son is missing and I realize with a heavy heart that it must be time for his first Reaping. He spots me and we share a quick nod. After everything, you could never call our relationship a friendship, but it's definitely an understanding, an equilibrium. Bread and squirrels and nods.

I glance down at the youngest child, the one born just a few months before Katniss. My eyebrows rise as I catch him staring right back in our direction. But the boy takes no notice of me; his eyes are cast towards my daughter. His mouth gapes open a little as he gazes at Katniss, the corners slowly turning up as Primrose tugs on one of her braids and they both giggle.

Suddenly, my heart fills with something unfamiliar. I recognize the way the boy is looking at her. It's the same way Bryn used to look at Jacinta. An urge rises to wrap my baby girls up in my arms and take them away to a place far removed from all the boys who will ever dare to look at them.

But the murmuring of the crowd around me reminds me that there are bigger things to protect them from than young boys.

All the thoughts I think down below come roaring back. Every year it get harder, more unbearable, to stand here powerless and watch our innocents bleed out. Why doesn't anybody stop this? Part of me cries out, "Why not you?" But this is something we can only do together. Our nation can rise and tear free from our shackles, but only if we rise together as one.

There's a fire simmering deep below the surface. Deep within the heart of every citizen stripped of our human freedoms. It has been burning for decades, since the moment the Dark Days were lost, and will continue to smolder until it is either strangled and snuffed out for good, or bursts forth into an uncontrollable inferno.

But like the tragedies that rumble through the mine and steal away our brothers in darkness, this fire cannot combust on its own. It needs something to ignite it.

I look down at my girl, at the blue-eyed boy fixated on her.

I wonder if the spark we need will come within their lifetime. If they will see a day without oppression, without fear, without starvation, without the Reaping, without the Capitol. If their children will be born into this world. If I will one day hold my grandchildren who have never known terror in the form of slips of paper in a glass bowl.

I try to imagine my Katniss growing up into a headstrong teenager, her hair in one braid instead of two, living in a world where the only thing keeping her from loving whomever she liked was her over-protective father, not a regime and its artificial hierarchies, or the constant fear of loss and grief. A world where the Mellark boy could court my daughter if he wanted to and only have to deal with my intimidations, not the threat of becoming a social pariah, shamed and abandoned, like my beloved wife.

Katniss grabs my hand and offers me a smile that shows off her two missing teeth. I look down at my baby girl and make her a silent promise. I vow, as long as I live, to do whatever I can to prepare this district for fire.

I just wonder who will be the one to bring the spark.

Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl, entwined hands, and a chariot ablaze.

There was a man with blue hair, a girl with a red dress, and a boy with a secret to confess.

There was kiss in a cave, a handful of berries, and a spark that set the world aflame.

Two broken young people stand on a stage and three fingers are raised to the sky.

We do not agree.

We do not condone.

All of this is wrong.

We will stop this.


End file.
